Subtle Contrast
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Hermione discovers a mysterious diary, and wishes to return it to the proper owner. But it calls to Harry instead, and he takes it for himself. Except there is someone lurking within the contents of this diary... .:. a TomHarry semi-AU for SarraBearra.
1. It Began Innocently Enough

**A/N: This is something I'm writing for a friend. She loves this pairing, and got me into it, and now we've come up with an idea that must be written, LOL. So yeah. Enjoy, Tom/Voldy X Harry fans~ ;D**

**Note: Canon events up until the discovery of Tom's diary. At that point on, it becomes an AU.**

**EDIT: Sarra-Bearra has officially Beta'd this chapter. It's much better now. XD **

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_Chapter I: It Began Innocently Enough_

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She really needs to practice. This is something she has never admitted to herself, because she always tries to be the top student, but even top students need help every now and then.

And so she came here, to the one place where she can be (mostly) alone and practice her potions: the girls' lavatory. But not just any of the many girls' lavatories at Hogwarts; specifically Moaning Myrtle's lavatory on the second floor.

She sighs, and tries to properly make one of the three potions Professor Snape is forcing her class to learn this week. Only, as soon as she adds a pinch of dry spider eggs that smell rather vile, she hears splashing and footsteps. She looks up from her place on the floor to find Ginny Weasley – the younger sister of one of her best friends – racing out of one of the stalls.

She jumps up into attention as soon as she hears Moaning Myrtle crying out softly in surprise. "Ohh, ohh, deary me…"

"Myrtle?" she asks, and she tiptoes cautiously into one of the nearby stalls.

"Ohh, ohh, why? Why me? Why must they always be so cruel, picking on me like this! They know that this is my toilet, don't they? Why do they always throw things into my toilet? Ooh, oh…"

She pauses as she finds the ghostly girl sobbing above a flooded toilet. Inside, there is a diary, leather-bound and beautiful, even if it's soaking wet in the lou. "Myrtle, whose journal is this?"

"Oh, how should _I_ know?" the ghost wails in reply. "It's not like _I_ care who it belongs to, or _why_ they threw it in here in the first place!" She wipes at her eyes behind her glasses with her transparent hands. "Could you get it out for me, Miss Granger?" She pauses, unsure of herself. "That _is_ your name, isn't it?"

Hermione nods. "Yes, that's right. How'd you know?"

Myrtle smiles, but her eyes remain woeful. "I read your name on your papers that are scattered all over the floor. Are you doing homework?"

Idly, the bookworm nods. But she isn't paying much attention; she's too preoccupied with getting the journal out of the toilet to try and salvage it. But as she touches the edges of the pages, she finds that they are mysteriously dry.

"How odd," she murmurs to herself, "It must be charmed, to protect it." There is a lock on it as well, one that is impossible to open, with or without magic, because as Hermione soon finds out, the lock is also under a spell of some sort.

Hermione wants nothing more than to return this to its proper owner, or at least in to the Headmaster until the owner is found, but how can she when can't even open it to read the owner's name? And she doubts that Professor Dumbledore will be so bold as to break the hex and invade someone's privacy…

Sighing, Hermione finished drying off the outside of the book and takes her things to leave, unfinished, due to the diary. She hopes that she can find out what to do with it; whoever lost it must be devastated!

But… why did Ginny have it just now, and why was she trying to get rid of it? She's not one to take people's possessions and do away with them. There must be a logical reason. Only… what is it?

Confused and suddenly tired, Hermione says goodbye to Myrtle before exiting the bathroom and heading toward the Gryffindor Common Room.

While on the way there, she waves hello to Neville and nods once in a Hufflepuff's direction. Then, after saying the password, she enters the Common Room.

"There you are, Hermione!" Ron exclaims as soon as she comes into view. He nudges Harry to get the black-haired boy's nose out of a book. "See, told you she'd turn up sooner or later."

"I'm not a lost dog, thank you," she retorts stiffly. She sets her books and potion supplies down on the coffee table before the fireplace. "Besides, I was busy."

"Reading in the library?" Ron snickers teasingly.

Hermione grows pink with anger. "No! I was…" Doing something much more nerdy than that, but she doesn't want to explain it to them. So, straightening herself, she replies, "I was looking for the owner of this diary." And she produces it from the pocket of her robes, the worn black cover catching Harry's eye.

Something strange washes over Harry's senses. There is a nagging tick in the back of his mind, and an overpowering force urging him to pick up the diary and take it for himself. He wants to resist, and he attempts to with all his might, but to no avail. He finds himself eying the journal with keen interest. Harry licks his suddenly dry lips. "Can I… see that for a moment?"

She shrugs. "Sure, I suppose. But Harry, what difference does it make? The lock on it is impossible to open; _I _can't even open it. I mean, no offense, Harry, but I know more unlocking spells than you." She hesitates in thought. "Unless it looks familiar to you? Do you know who it belongs to?" she asks hopefully. "I'd like to return it as soon as possible –"

"No! – I mean, uh, let me return it for you, Hermione! I think I know who it belongs to," Harry lies smoothly, his green eyes lit with something akin to excitement. There is something in the back of his mind that is calling out to him, picking and picking until he can't stand it any longer and he must obey its wishes. So he listens to it, because part of him really wants to know what it has to say inside of it. What secrets could it possibly hold? He _needs_ to know.

"Alright, Harry." Hermione says curtly, passing the leather-bound book to him. She turns on her heel to face Ron. "And _you_… Have you done your homework yet?" she scolds while narrowing her eyes. She knows full well that he hasn't. The redhead scratches the back of his head meekly, and Hermione forces him to open up his textbook and get started.

Harry, in the meantime, is gathering up his things and slipping up the stairs to the dormitory. He closes the door behind him and paces over to his own bed. He dumps his books atop his trunk at the foot of his bed, not caring if they fall to the floor.

Harry plops down onto his bed, cradling the little black diary to his chest, staring at it with intrigue sparkling in his eyes. His fingers ghost over the lock dreamily, wishing that he could open it. Oddly, the lock clicks opens when the thought passes through his mind. Hermione must have been lying so that he wouldn't peek, he concludes. Then, as he opens the front cover, he spies a name in fine, elegant script written in green-black ink:

_This diary is the property of: _

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

"Tom… Marvolo… Riddle," Harry sounds the name out, testing it out on his tongue. Saying it gives him goosebumps. There is something eerily familiar about the name, but he can't place what it is. Ignoring his sense of wrong, Harry turns the pages to where the first entry should be. Except… the page is blank.

Frowning, Harry flips more pages. The same goes for the entire journal: empty.

Disappointment weighs heavily on Harry's chest, and he leans back onto his headboard with a long sigh. He glances over at his end table; on it lies a quill and some ink. Shrugging, he decides to uncap the ink and dip the quill in. He scratches his name onto the first page, unsure if he should make this his own diary – who's going to miss an empty diary? – or if he should simply give it up to one of his professors.

But a curious thing happens. As soon as he writes, 'My name is Harry Potter,' ink bleeds from the page below his line of text with the same green-black ink as the inner front cover. It reads:

_'Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle.'_

The young twelve-year-old boy gasps. "It... it wrote back to me!" he shouts in surprise. Something ignites within him, a spark of curiosity and bewilderment. He leans down and writes out, _'How is this possible?'_

There is something like a smirk in Tom's tone as his words form across the page, _'Wouldn't you like to know._' Then, as Harry tries to think of something else to say, Tom asks, _'How old are you?'_

_'I'm a second-year,_' Harry responds a bit ashamedly, his ink running dry. He re-dips his quill and adds, _'What about you?'_

_'I am forever a sixth-year,_' Tom informs the boy. _'Trapped within this diary.'_

Harry feels somehow empathetic. He feels that way about living at the Dursley home each year; trapped within his hellish cupboard. (Not that he would admit this to anybody.)

The Boy Who Lived scribbles next, _'I'm sorry to hear that. I wish I could do something for you, Tom.' _

He waits, and for a moment, no new words appear. But then, ever so slowly, come the words: _'Actually, you can.'_

_'How?'_ Harry writes out of curiosity. It would be nice to help someone who's bound to a diary.

Tom answers smoothly, his handwriting ever charming: _'All you have to do is promise to talk to me each day. I get lonely in this diary; it is nothing but a world of memories, people like ghosts and objects like mist. It's nice to see a new face.'_

Harry does not know what he is getting himself into. He's too naive to realize how manipulative and suspicious this can sound, yet he agrees nonetheless. Tom just sounds so… _tragic_… that the boy simply cannot help himself.

As he thinks of a response, he looks over Tom's previous statements and frowns at the last thing the older boy said. Harry writes the question, _'Wait... you can see me?'_

As if trying to hide his true magical potential to Harry, Tom explains hurriedly: _'When the pages are open, yes. I can see the face of whoever writes in my diary, but I can't see anybody else, nor can I hear anything.' _

Tom pauses, deciding to use this to his advantage. He writes in an attempt to make a good impression on the young boy: '_But I must say, I didn't think you were a second-year at first. There is a sort of maturity about you that I can see in your eyes; the maturity of someone who has seen hardship.'_

Harry nods sadly; something in the back of his mind tugs at him, urging him to confess to his hardships. Such as losing his parents as an infant, being raised by the Dursley family, and suffering everything concerning the Philosopher's Stone during his first year. He replies, _'I've gone through a lot, it's true. But it's nothing I can't handle.'_

_'You must be very strong,'_ Tom remarks, his writing seemingly conveying gentle understanding.

Harry smiles softly. _'I don't feel like it, but I feel like it's what's meant to happen, all of these 'hardships.' They're my burden to bear, and I'm sure that there's more coming in my future.'_

_'I'm very sorry,_' Tom says, and Harry feels as though the older boy means it. _'Say, Harry, would you like to meet me in person? I want us to be friends, but I know that it's difficult to trust someone you've never seen.'_

_'Sure,'_ he writes, not seeing anything wrong with Tom's logic. _'How? Is there a spell for that?'_

As soon as his quill lifts off of the parchment, he feels a bizarre tingling sensation soar across his body. It feels as though he is turning to sand, breaking down into teeny particle-sized pieces and swirling into a sparkling, golden cloud. He cries out for help, but no sound comes as his voice is lost in translation.

Harry is immediately absorbed into the journal, all of his gritty, sandy-like pieces sucked into the spine in a single gust of wind. Then, as the leather-bound book flaps shut, Harry feels himself drop rapidly downward into a misty grey abyss.

And, for a moment, he knows nothing, not even his own name.

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**Next chapter:**

_Chapter II: Land of Memory_


	2. Land of Memory

**EDIT: Officially Beta'd by Sarra-Bearra. A lot changed, sorry. Mostly 'cause I'm not the HP fanfiction expert... she is. LOL. (I'm more of an anime-fanfic writer.)**

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_Chapter II: Land of Memory_

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Plummeting, faster and faster, into papery, eerily cool, dusty mist. Grey, everywhere grey, and shrouded in greenish light, almost glowing within.

The boy takes a step forward, having somehow been grounded. He missed the time between falling and landing, but he doesn't care, so long as his feet are planted firmly once more.

He shivers, and shuts his eyes, trying to remember. His mind feels fuzzy, and he blinks open his eyes to glance at his hands, pat his chest, touch his hair.

_How old am I? _

He can't remember.

_What is my name? _

He can't remember.

_Where is this place?_

He can't remember.

"I'm glad that you could visit me, Harry," comes an alluring voice, rich and deep and oddly calming.

Harry._ That's what my name is,_ the boy suddenly recalls, the name ringing in his skull. _Harry Potter. And I'm… a wizard. Right. And muggle-raised. And I'm twelve, _he relays quickly, the memories coming back. He glances up at Tom's face, trying to ignore the passing thought that the teenager is quite handsome, with perfectly plump lips on the bottom, and perfectly thin, curved lips on top, and striking eyes that seem to peer into Harry's very soul.

The young wizard blinks up at the lightly grinning face of his one companion, trying to place their relation. How does he know this other boy? He must know him, because the other boy spoke his name and what's more, he feels a slightly pull from the back of his mind leading him to this other boy.

_This must be… who? An old journal comes to mind. Why? Did I have a journal? Hmm, no, I don't think I did. I think… I found one. Yes, that must be right; I found a journal, and was writing in it, and… Now I remember! It wrote back! So this person is…_

"Tom," Harry murmurs unsurely. He frowns at his own memory. "Why can't I remember much? My mind is hazy."

"Sorry," the older boy apologizes with a slight smile, "I forgot to warn you about this spell's side effects. They should be wearing off soon, though. All I did was convert your physical body to a spiritual one, to match mine in this place. But the process is… complicated. And slow."

"Oh," the green-eyed boy replies distantly, trying to piece things together. It makes sense, from what he can tell. His suspicions dissipate. "I'm glad the spelled worked and I can see you in person." Glancing around, Harry notices the nature of this world within the journal: it's very vacant; nothing but a void of foggy grey with hardly a solid surface to stand upon. The ground itself is like that of a stack of paper, which, come to think of it, is all a journal is. Harry tilts his head to the left and wonders aloud, "Do you ever get lonely here, Tom? This place is... well, rather bleak."

The older wizard nods politely, not giving way to any single hints as to his emotions on the subject. "Sometimes. But I do have the company of my memories, because I have the option of reliving them."

"Is that so?" Harry remarks, intrigued by such advanced type of magic. "Can you show me?"

Tom grows tense for a moment, hesitation flickering in his eyes.

More observant than others give him credit for at times, Harry notices the hesitation in Tom's usually masked face. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to pry; I know how it can be to have memories you would rather not share." He glances down at his shoes with a vaguely distraught expression.

Regaining his composure, the older wizard relents to show Harry at least a few memories, if only to play on Harry's heartstrings and further gain his trust. He shrugs one shoulder, turns on his heel, and gestures with one long-digited hand for Harry to follow him. "Sure, Harry. I'll show you part of my past. I suppose it would be easier for us to get to know each other that way."

Harry thinks nothing of the strange, almost snake-like whispers seeming to speak to Tom, warning the older boy not to give too much away. With Harry's mind so far glazed by the lingering transfer spell to determine danger from innocence, he waits patiently for Tom to show him the mysterious memories.

"Wait. Watch," Tom commands, waving his hand over the unmoving, misty air around them.

And so Harry does. He steps over to Tom's side and waits, watching for whatever is to arrive.

'Arrive' ends up being precisely the correct word to use. As Harry watches, what transpires is the arrival of ghosts: shapes, figures, dulled colors, and blurs of people in miscellaneous places, and moments suspended in time. Harry stares in awe as entire scenes unfold all around him, and practically _inside_ him, as he feels each and every emotion Tom must have felt as each event presents itself.

Classrooms at Hogwarts full of nearly faceless students, more detailed professors, and the occasional owl; they all come and go, muttering echoed phrases Harry doesn't always catch. One man, whom Tom refers to in the vision as Slughorn, smiles knowingly at Tom, treating him like some sort of teacher's pet. Then, a younger Dumbledore speaking to Tom in a hallway, and a seemingly dead body being whisked away.

Harry shudders, and he feels Tom lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't be intimidated by what you're feeling, Harry; they are merely my past emotions linked to my memories, regrettable and unavoidable. Simply let them pass through you; think nothing of them."

Numbly, Harry nods. The visions continue: dinners in the Great Hall, glimpses of children at an orphanage, and outbursts of screams, shouts, curses from wands, and swears from mouths.

Bits and pieces of a preteen lifetime, and then, without so much as a warning, it all evaporates into a wisp of inky black smoke.

To himself, The Boy Who Lived puzzles over some of the content of the brief images and phrases he saw and heard. Feeling a scrap of pity for Tom near the end of the wave of memories, Harry remarks, "I know this might not mean much, Tom, but I think I can relate to you. My past hasn't been that grand either." He offers a small, reassuring smile, as if to say, 'you're not alone in that respect.'

"Thank you, I've needed to hear that from someone for a while now," Tom replies as gently as he's capable, in order to manipulate Harry into believe that they are getting along well. But as he gazes at Harry, he notices the boy beginning to fluctuate in solidity, fading in and out like his ghosts of memory.

The green-eyed boy sees this as well, and starts to panic. He asks in a rush, "What's happening to me?"

"The spell I used to bring you here to my realm is wearing thin, I'm afraid," Tom says with a faked note of sorrow on his otherwise deadpan expression. "Due to the power needed to manifest your spiritual body into the diary, it will be a little while until I can use it again." He pauses, then adds, "But remember that you can always write to me."

Harry feels himself drifting apart again, becoming sand-like once more. He tries to grip Tom's cloak. Slytherin, he notices. Normally a symbol of the enemy to Harry, but not this time. He feels… connected to this person. He doesn't want to leave yet. "No, wait – Tom, I want to –" _have more of my questions answered,_ he had been about to say, but he's cut off as he crumbles and soars upwards in a flurry of glimmering golden dust, zooming out of the crevasse of the journal and back into his dorm room.

Head reeling in a manner that remind him of smoothie ingredients in a blender, Harry can remember everything on this return trip, unlike his initial entrance. He exhales slowly, trying to prevent the nausea threatening to rise in the pit of his belly.

"Tom Riddle…" Harry murmurs softly to himself, "Why do you feel so familiar to me? I feel like I already know you.…"

He shakes his head, feeling foolish. He stands, dusts himself, and feels the need to take a nice, steamy shower to clear his head.

"Bah. I've got to stop thinking for a while. I'm becoming some bloody obsessive dolt, and it's not a pleasant feeling." He laughs at himself a little on the inside, and heads for the showers.

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**Next chapter:**

_Chapter III: On Another Level Entirely_


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